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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24362593">Do you know how to make pancakes?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov'>Baryshnikov</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV), Killing Eve (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood, Character Study, Classy Cannibalism, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Love, Love/Hate, M/M, Manipulation, Morality, Multi, Murder, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Seduction, Sexuality, Unhealthy Relationships</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:15:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,017</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24362593</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eve needs help in figuring out what she wants, but guidance is what Hannibal is best at providing.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Will Graham &amp; Eve Polastri, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Do you know how to make pancakes?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first time writing both Hannibal and Killing Eve, so I don't really know what I'm doing here, and there are undoubtedly going to be some egregious errors in characterisation etc. do feel at liberty to point them out.</p><p>At a guess, this is probably set mid-season 2 for Hannibal and post-season 2 (but prior to season 3) for Killing Eve, but other than that, I am entirely ignoring much of the plot that should probably be happening.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was raining; that had been something that others who were native to the United Kingdom had warned him of, and yet, he had assumed that they must have been overreacting. They were not, and it had been raining for much of the week, and when it was not raining the sky was overcast—a colour of grey that not even the most talented poet could find a compelling contrast in.</p><p>Sometimes, the endlessness of these periods made Hannibal question the decision to cross the pond; it hadn’t been necessary, and it had meant leaving behind unfinished business which he never enjoyed. But much of that had been counteracted by the simple fact Will had followed at his own volition—he didn’t <em>have</em> to, and Hannibal had not compelled him in any meaningful way.</p><p>He was simply here, and they had resumed their ‘conversations’ in much the same way as before. </p><p>In many ways, Hannibal had assumed that the move would be a challenge, but in reality, it had been rather seamless, and that had certainly been facilitated, in part, by the general British constitution of avoiding all potential invasions of someone else’s personal life; people asked after his weekend, or his health, or his work life, and not one of them expected a genuine answer. It was rather freeing in that certain respect. </p><p>The stiff-upper-lip that garnered equal admiration and condemnation certainly had its uses for fabricating one’s life. But Hannibal’s attention shouldn’t have been lingering on London or the curious qualities of the British public when he should have been working, and he tilted his gaze away from the high windows, still smattered with rain, and back towards his current patient. </p><p>She hadn’t said anything yet, and she was watching him even if she pretended not to be. Eve was an attractive woman, at least superficially—not a Londoner though, not even British—that much was obvious from the way she sat, uncomfortable, but nonetheless assured that she had a purpose here, even if she had forgotten what it was. </p><p>“Ms Polastri—” </p><p>“Eve,” she said, not looking at him. Instead, her gaze was fixed on her hands as they twitched, incessantly, in her lap—pulling at the sleeve of her raincoat. She looked mildly distressed. Concerned. She definitely regretted doing this and was considering the possibilities for whoever recommended this… therapy. It was a look that Hannibal had seen many times before, mostly on those who believed they didn’t <em>need</em> to be helped.   </p><p>Stubbornness was truly the nemesis of aid. </p><p>“Eve,” Hannibal corrected, slower now, more cautious as it were, like a hunter pacing behind a deer, treading carefully through the undergrowth so as not to startle the creature. “Can I get you a drink?”</p><p>Her head snapped up; her eyes fixed on him—it wasn’t the question she’d been expecting. Hannibal rather suspected that she’d been expecting him to ask probing questions about feelings and that he intended to gain an intimate understanding of the confidential mechanics of her brain; almost certainly, she had done her research on standard methodology, maybe even prepped her answers for his imaginary questions.</p><p>Now though she stumbled, thrown off her intentions by a simple question—prepared, but only cursorily. </p><p>“Err—sure,” she said, still watching him, her hands now motionless in her lap, though there was a slight twitch affecting her foot. In the silent room, it was an irritant to Hannibal’s hearing, that constant tap against the floorboard. None of his other patients had the audacity to tap through a session, but maybe that was a testament to how little Eve wanted to be here. He wondered, briefly, who had demanded she come in the first place.</p><p>The tapping continued. </p><p>“Do you mind?” he said, glancing down at her foot as he got up, before turning to save her the embarrassment, and making his way to the drink’s cabinet—placed in part to bring the room a more informal atmosphere, and in part for convenience. The tapping stopped. </p><p>The British drinking style was another anomaly, not quite like North America, but nor like Europe—drinking here was a rite of passage, and deeply ingrained into the national psyche. Though that being said, eagerness could rarely compensate for a lack of aptitude, and the British aptitude for drinking was somewhat… wanting. </p><p>Without wishing to insult the distinctive minority, there was a tendency amongst the population towards quantity over quality. Although Eve looked as though that might be a trait, she was more than competent in.</p><p>With the same meticulousness as he did everything, Hannibal poured two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc served slightly chilled, not that Eve asked what it was, she just gulped it down with little regard for the smell, or palate, or even flavour. “So,” she said, licking her lips and holding the glass still, “are you—err—going to ask me some questions?”</p><p>“As I tell all my patients,” Hannibal said, watching how Eve winced at that particularly <em>clinical</em> word—Will did the same—as he sat down opposite her once again, “we will take about whatever it is you wish to talk about—” </p><p>“Villanelle,” Eve said, scarcely before he’d finished speaking. She swallowed, noting that she had violated a sort of unspoken rule on interruptions and general etiquette; “I want…” Eve continued, deliberately slower, taking her time to form the words instead of letting them all spill out of her mouth in a great rush, “…to talk about Villanelle.”</p><p>Hannibal smiled and leaned back in his chair, his left hand splayed wide along the arm, whilst his right held the wine glass; there was something about this ‘Villanelle’ that made Eve’s face light up—animate itself—and the consequence of that on her overall physicality was quite charming. </p><p>“May I ask <em>who</em> Villanelle is?” he said, keeping his gaze firm, but relaxed, alternating between Eve’s face and the leather notebook still sitting between them; he <em>had</em>, as he always did,  intended to make notes, but upon meeting her, and more so now that they were sitting together, Hannibal could feel something about Eve that suggested this shouldn’t be an ‘on-the-record’ conversation.  </p><p>“She’s… well, umm… she’s…” Eve paused, “you’re bound by confidentiality, right?” she said, a change to her tone, indicating a sudden inclination towards seriousness. It was interesting, not to mention, curious to see such a <em>chaotic</em> personality roaming free, as it were; most were either institutionalised or domesticated—housetrained, into leaving only small quantities of chaos in their wake. </p><p>But Eve’s head was all over the place, and Hannibal could all but see the tangled mess of words that were bundled up on the tip of her tongue. She had never got to talk about Villanelle before, at least, not with someone who wouldn’t look at her with confusion, or contempt, or disgust.<br/>
“Indeed, I am,” Hannibal said, shifting in his seat, realigning his spine with the centre of the chair and raising his wine glass, “no one will hear a word of our conversation unless you wish them to.” </p><p>“She’s an assassin,” Eve blurted out. </p><p>Hannibal paused, his wineglass half-way to his mouth—it was a movement that was only partially intentional—Eve <em>was</em> going to be interesting. The way that she was looking at him now certainly was, at once curious, nervous and daring, as though she was challenging him to be surprised by her confession. But whatever confidence Eve had, it was either superficial or buried too deep inside her, and, as a result, it only appeared in waves, or perhaps, such a temperament was more akin to solar flares, each burning with a different intensity. </p><p>“I see—” </p><p>“I stabbed her; she shot me,” Eve said, the words a messy slop just pouring out of her mouth, how she had maintained a job in any intelligence service was, apparently, quite the miracle, unless, of course, British security was rather more lapse than most people believed. “I think we’re even on that one,” she added a moment later, her tone nonchalant, part relishing the moment, part reviling it, but either way, recalling it clearly. </p><p>A fond memory, perhaps. Though killing, or even, <em>attempting</em> to kill tended to find a bed in one’s mind.</p><p>Despite the seriousness of the topic, Hannibal couldn’t help but dip his head to smile a little—it appeared he wasn’t the only one with unconventional methods of attraction, and, in many respects, it was impossible <em>not</em> to draw comparisons between Eve and Will. There was that same wide-eyed nature to them both, the sort of look that a casual observer would describe as shock, or perhaps, innocence if they were particularly poorly sighted, but was really wide-eyed delight at finding <em>someone like them</em>.</p><p>“Why are you smiling?” said Eve, catching him almost unaware, as she turned to glance behind her, suspicious, as though she thought this was all an elaborate form of entrapment. It wasn’t, not even Jack would curate something so deplorably obvious. </p><p>“Because, Eve,” he said, still overly careful, “you are not the first law enforcement, nor SIS employee to sit here,” he continued, “and confess an obsession with the very person you are trying to catch, and I very much doubt that you will be the last either.”</p><p>“I’m not obsessed,” Eve said quickly, “and how did you know I was MI6?”</p><p>Hannibal looked at her, an eyebrow raised, he leaned forward to place his wineglass down onto the low table; it felt too obvious a question to be dignified with an answer, but as Eve sipped her wine, her tongue pressed against the edge, it was obvious she expected one. Hannibal swallowed. “You’re still wearing your identification,” he said, dropping his gaze down to where it hung, a heavy weight of responsibility, around her neck. </p><p>Instantly, Eve flushed, and swore, and raised her hand to the card attached to her lanyard; she ran her fingers over the edge and around the curve of the corner before tucking it into her pocket—very much locking the stable door after the horse had bolted. But with her sense of privacy restored, Eve turned back to him, chin raised, “why do you think I’m obsessed?” she said; a little forward, but otherwise, unoffensive. </p><p>Hannibal tried to shrug and play demure—toss her a bone and make her answer the question—but the set of her jaw suggested that if her patience wore too thin, Eve was not disinclined towards simply walking out, and she was simply too <em>interesting</em> to lose now, so he would humour her a while longer.</p><p>“Obsession is an often-perplexing feeling,” he said, carefully, choosing the words with precision and caution because Eve still looked a little restless, uneasy with her own mistake, and his reaction to it—perhaps he should have reassured her. “It can often embody emotions,” Hannibal continued, “like love and hate that we think to exist diametrically opposite one another, and as such it necessarily exists beyond our comprehension, but that being said it has its roots, at least etymologically, in notions of besiegement and—”</p><p>“I didn’t ask for a fucking history lesson,” Eve said, interrupting again; on anyone else, such a habit would have been entirely distasteful, but somehow, Eve wore impoliteness well. The steel of indecorousness suited her eyes, and the firm line that she kept her mouth in, and the way that she raised her chin was both ill-mannered and strangely alluring. </p><p>She didn’t apologise, she just drained her wineglass and placed it onto the table, opposite his; apparently, the thought of acting contrite not even passing over her face for a second, and for a moment she looked like Will when he was in one of his more retrograde moods. Eve certainly had potential. </p><p>“Aren’t you going to ask me questions, then?” she said, leaning back, her arms crossed, as though she had, before, been trying, and perhaps been subconscious, what suit would best flatter the conversation. Well, the one she’d chosen definitely caught his attention with its brazen edges and false confidence—the person that Eve wanted to be. </p><p>A lot of potential, then.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Apologies, updates for this are likely to be irregular.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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